


I Go To Sleep

by vihistoo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Loss, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:58:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vihistoo/pseuds/vihistoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the song, "I Go To Sleep", by Sia.</p><p>He slumps against her door, and his chest hurts, and he regrets. He regrets never telling her. It might've saved her. But he'll never know now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Go To Sleep

 

 

_When I look up from my pillow_  
_I dream you are there with me_  
_Though you are far away_  
_I know you'll always be near to me_

 

_I go to sleep_  
_And imagine that you're there with me_  
_I go to sleep_  
_And imagine that you're there with me_

 

_I was wrong, I will cry_  
_I will love you till the day I die_  
_You were all, you alone and no one else_  
_You were meant for me_

 

_- **Sia, "I Go To Sleep"** -_

 

On Baker Street, October 15, 2013, there is a knock on the door of 221B. John Watson opens the door, and DI Gregory Lestrade steps into the building and follows John up the stairs and into the flat. Sherlock Holmes is laying on the couch, and he watches with interest, then acute alarm as John's face crumples, and his eyes fill with tears. Greg brings a hand to his face, wiping under his eyes with the back of his hand. John and Greg hug, much longer than social standards would normally allow, and in the back of Sherlock's head, warning signs go off.

John walks unsteadily to his chair, where he collapses into it and hangs his head in his hands. Sherlock waits anxiously for John to speak.

"Molly..." John starts, but he chokes and holds back a sob.

Sherlock perks instantly. It is obviously not good news, considering how John reacted. She is more than just hurt, also obvious from John's reaction. _Is she de_ \- Sherlock stops the thought. It is to repulsive to even finish. But it is too late, because John finishes it for him.

"Molly is d-dead. It was quick, no pain. A car crashed and ran off the road, hit her on the sidewalk. She died instantly," John whispers, and his voice wavers.

On Baker Street, October 15, 2013, Sherlock Holmes's world detonates.

_Dead? Dead? Molly...Molly is dead?_

The thought does not register. It has no place within his mind, no meaning. He has obviously heard wrong. There is _(can be)_ no other explanation.

"What?" Sherlock asks.

John looks up, and his cheeks are splotchy. His blue eyes are rimmed in red and tears track down his face, hanging off his chin and dripping onto his thighs.

"Molly is gone, Sherlock. She died earlier today. She's gone," John says, and chokes again, moving his hands to his mouth to control the cries that shake his shoulders.

Sherlock stills, watching John, and he becomes increasingly frightened. There is no way Molly can be gone _(dead)_. It's virtually impossible. Molly is too bright, too happy, too _alive_ to be dead.

"No," Sherlock says, voice only shaking slightly. John's shoulders continue to shake and he looks up again, looking at Sherlock with a mixture of sadness and pity.

"Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock's view tips dangerously and he extends a weak hand to the couch arm.

"No," he repeats, shaking his head vehemently. The thought that John is telling the truth creeps on him but he pushes it away resolutely. They must be wrong, must be mistaken. Sherlock stands shakily, and walks to the door, swing his Belstaff on, ties his scarf.

"Sherlock, what're y-''

"I'll get her. Then you'll see. I'll get her. She always comes,'' Sherlock says hurriedly, and as the words escape his mouth, he hears how desperate they sound.

John calls after him as he runs out of 221B, but Sherlock ignores him, waving his hand until a cab rolls up to the kerb. He jumps in immediately. It's still early. Molly will be at work. She has to be. _(She isn't.)_

When he gets to Bart's, Sherlock runs until he reaches the morgue. He bursts in, and he does not see brown hair, or brown eyes. He does not see Molly. _She could just be in her office_. He turns to check, when something stops him. He eyes the morgue's cold chamber, and briefly considers opening the individual doors and looking for Molly, but he quickly dismisses it, because to see Molly still, and cold, would be worse than death. _(And Sherlock knows about death, he spent three years carrying it's scent on his clothes and in his hair.)_

He passes people, and they give him looks that harbour both confusion and empathy, and he pretends to not see them, even if they heighten his panic and anxiety, racketing the tension in his body tenfold.

At her office door, he breathes in and out slowly, his breath fogging the frosted glass. He can hear no sounds, and the light is off. He tries the door handle and finds it locked. Sherlock's chest suddenly feels very, very empty, like his heart has stopped beating, before it returns painfully, solidly thumping against his ribs.

Sherlock turns quickly, walking away. _She must just be sick. Must've just gone home earlier. Wasn't she telling me about some wedding she was invited too? Maybe she went there._

He leaves Bart's just as quickly as he entered it, completely ignoring all the blaring signs his quick mind found that Molly hadn't been to work today. _(She never made it.)_

In the cab he catches, the cabbie eyes him worriedly, no doubt feeling uneasy of the way Sherlock pulls his hair and taps his fingers on his thigh, looking for all the world like a madman.

He throws money at the cabbie when they arrive at Molly's flat building, and he stands for several long moments outside her door after climbing the stairs. There is no light, no sound coming from her flat. There is no sign of _life_. And now there is sound, the pained wheezing of Sherlock's lungs.

"Molly," Sherlock whispers, slumping against the door. "It's Sherlock. Please, let me in."

He's been through this routine before, coming to Molly bloodied and broken and battered, and she had fixed him, countless times, with her soft, quick hands and warm eyes; eyes that shone affection and love no matter what he said, or did. Even filled with pain and tears she loved him.

" _Molly_ ," Sherlock begs, as if the mere utterance of her name would make her appear.

He moves a hand to his chest as a throbbing ache fills the void and his lungs collapse into his spine. He feels a stinging in his palms and his knees hurt. He's dropped to the ground, and he reaches a hand for her door.

"Please, Molly, please."

There is no answer. _(There never will be.)_

He gasps in ragged breaths, because _god_ does it hurt, but he waits. He perseveres. She will come, Molly will come. Molly is always there, she is a permanent figure in Sherlock's life. To compare _Molly_ with _lifeless_ is as similar as comparing _Sherlock_ to _wrong_. It just doesn't happen, doesn't fit.

"Molly, please, I-I-I." Sherlock's voice breaks and a broken and cracked sob crawls out of his gut, of out the black pit that has developed under his ribcage. He can't get the words out, because he knows, he _knows_ that it will mean _nothing,_ she will not hear him.

He feels, he feels, and he _regrets_. Because he did, he swears he did; he loved her in his own way. And she never knew. He should've- should've just fucking told her, just stopped being such an idiot for holding himself back. And now he's lost her, and the realisation is too much to handle, the agony it brings up is too much to contain, and so the oozing grief compiling in his chest rises up, out of his throat, and Sherlock is reminded of the souds of a dying animal.

The words are interrupted by his cries of pain and the hiccups of his breathing, but he knows that if he just says the words, she will come back, she always comes back. Molly always comes back. _(Not this time.)_

"I-I'm _sorry_ , Molly. Please, please, come back. Come back. I love you, believe me, I love you-so much, so much. I'll-I'll-I'll do anything. Anything you need. You-you asked me that once, remember? _What do you need?_ You, Molly, it's always been you, I swear. I swear. I love you, Molly. _Damn it_ , I love you! Please!"

Sherlock slaps his hands against the ground in anger, before his back bends, bowing under the force of his anguish. He grabs the sides of his head and huddles close to his legs, now bent underneath his body. He, fumbling, unties his scarf with shaking fingers because this torment, this misery, _(losing Molly, and she didn't know he loved her)_ is choking him, drowning him, and he can't see, can't see out of the tears blurring his vision.

His mind betrays him, or saves him, drawing up every memory of her, every picture of her face, and he bites his tongue hard enough to make him bleed when he remembers insulting her, calling her lips _too small_. Her breasts _too small_. No, no, it doesn't matter, didn't matter. _(Nothing matters.)_

Her hands were small, and so soft, flitting over his skin and through his hair softly, gently. Her eyes were so dark, so deep brown and warm and fathomless, he could stare into her eyes all day. _(If he only had the chance)_. Her clothes had been garish, childish, but they were _hers_ , it was her style; unique, and something utterly _Molly._

She was so _warm, so alive, so full of love._ He hates the driver, he hates the world, the god he doesn't believe in, for allowing someone as good, as perfect as Molly to die. _(He prays though, in the back of his mind, prays for her to come back, with shining brown eyes and tender touches.)_

He imagines it now, imagines the future the would've had. He'd come home, and there'd be tea and a sandwich waiting for him. He'd undoubtedly try to push the sandwich away, but she undoubtedly get him to eat it, and he'd lay with his head in her lap, and she'd play with his hair. Perhaps they would've gotten married. Some day, when it was clear and bright out. It would be small, just John and Mary and Lestrade and Meena and Mrs.Hudson. She'd look so _beautiful_ , trussed up in a gown she would've picked out thinking of the look on Sherlock's face. He would wait for her at the end of the aisle, and he would hold her hands gently, kiss her softly, with all the love and passion he'd bottled up from the world. _(Her.)_ Kids, then? Of course, after the marriage. They'd have Molly's neverending compassion and his brilliance, and they would've been so _astonishing_ , all brown eyes and curly hair, deducing, loving, asking to help out on autopsies and cases.

This is _his fault_. If he'd just told her, they would've had this _life_ and Molly would still be here. She would've been at the flat, wearing his dressing gowns and drinking tea and reading books. Sleeping in his bed and touching him, kissing him, _loving him. (If she'd only known.)_

Sherlock howls again, and pulls at his hair in anger. The howl does not satisfy him, does not satisfy the viscous ball of madness and grief seated in him so he shouts, he shouts. The sound is so miserable, so _tormented_ , that he sags again, body hunching like he could avoid the blows of heartache that crash against his body like waves on the beach; receding, only to come back full force and knock him over again.

Through the harsh and cracking noise of his suffering he dimly hears footsteps. He instantly turns his head, reaching shaking hands to the wall to lift himself up. A woman's face enters his vision, and his heart stops when brown hair swings past his eyes. But no, this woman is not her, the face is wrong, not filled with love and care, but with worry and fear. _(For herself. This man is a wreck, tear-stained face and wild hair, pounding at the floor like he lost the love of his life._

_He has.)_

"A-are you okay, sir? Do you need help?"

Sherlock almost laughs, then he does; hysterically. It's funny, it is, because he most definitely is not _okay_. He is _lost_ , yes he is. Sherlock stands unsteadily and brushes past the woman who is not Molly. He stumbles down the stairs, taking back alleys to avoid the pubic, having to stop a few times when the sorrow sticks in his throat and cuts off his breathing.

He is in an alley a block away from Baker Street when he hears something following him. It is not a person, and he is grossly grateful for the fact. When he turns, another round of mangled wails tears up his sore throat. The cat's green eyes glitter in the limited light of the alley, and when Sherlock collapses to his knees again, the cat stalks forward, recognizing the man from the weeks Sherlock had stayed with Molly.

"Toby," Sherlock whispers, reaching out hands for the animal.

Toby perks at his name, and skips to Sherlock. Sherlock scoops the feline in his arms, making a noise of distress when Toby buts his head against his chin. The noise of distress turns into a sad laugh, ends in a trailing whimper. When Toby moved, Sherlock could see his collar. A hand-made thing of yarn, all bright colours; yellow and light green and blue, a little bell engraved with _Toby_ hanging off it. He remembers the knitting needles that sat by her chair.

Sherlock stands, and Toby relaxes with a soft meow, settling into the cradle of Sherlock's arms. Sherlock has no idea how the feline escaped Molly's flat, but when he slinks into 221B, he finds he doesn't care. He relishes the thought of having some small piece of Molly. _(Even though he had her heart.)_

When John hears him, he jumps up, and flies across the room, scanning Sherlock with his eyes, bright and worried. When John sees the cat, confusion makes his eyes crinkle, but when understanding dawns, his eyes fill again, and his chin quivers.

Sherlock sees it, and sits, letting Toby out of his arms to wind around John's legs. John sits down as well, and Toby climbs into his lap, purring loudly. It it a comforting sound. It is the only sound. They pet the cat in turns. It is a pitiful sight, two grown men swallowed by grief, petting a cat for comfort, but both men have put away their pride, and take their comfort greedily.

At her funeral, Sherlock manages to keep in his woe until the others leave. When they do, he is left alone, sobbing in pieces by her gravestone, running his fingers over the indents of her name.

 

 

_Molly Hooper_

_16 May, 1979_

_-_

_15 October, 2013_

_She gave so much and demanded so little._

 

 

"I love you, Molly," Sherlock utters softly.

The epitaph was his idea. John and Mary had teared up when he suggested it, and both graced him with hugs, for which he was immensely thankful. It gave him the chance to hide his own heartbreak.

It takes months to return to the morgue, the lab. Each attempt sent pangs of blunt pain to his chest, and even now, when he enters the spaces, he can smell her perfume and see her standing next to him. The new specialist registrar doesn't matter to him, just some small, quiet man he only deduced to ensure he wasn't a threat.

He begins to take cases again, starts to smile more and hurt less when he thinks of her. He visits her grave each time he can, and even in death, she still helps him think. Sherlock thanks her every time, leaves a flower for her. _( Buttercups; her favourite.)_

Sometimes he says her name, just to remind himself of it's sweet flavour as it rolls off his tongue, sometimes to see Toby turn and perk his ears.

He reads every book she left him, uses every piece of lab equipment she gave him. He finds a scarf and ring in her office. He keeps them, rubs his thumb over the material, a striped thing, blue and purple and pink. He loops the ring onto a necklace and wears it. Sherlock smiled slightly when he found it. It didn't fit on his smallest finger. She was such a petite woman.

Sherlock still imagines, sometimes, what life they would've had. He has dreams about it, and they're so colourful, so real, so alive and so purely wonderful that when he wakes, he feels a strange combination of joy and longing.

He wonders how his mind, brilliant and complex as it is, could come up with such things, such vibrant and tangible things. John, a man of faith, says it's just Molly, being there for him.

Sherlock couldn't tell you, but he likes the thought, and now when he sleeps, he imagines Molly tucked in his arms, and one thing he could tell you, is that even though he's lost her, he's never slept better in all his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please forgive me. I'm terribly sorry.


End file.
